But the gale is driving us on, and the iron teeth fail to bite the sod.
We clutch at the hoop and the rigging above, and with a crash, the basket strikes the earth.
The shock throws us back into it.
The balloon bounds on several hundred feet, rolling like a huge football. We are dragged, tossed, bumped, and bruised. Everything in the basket is smashed, and the claret on the captain’s face looks like blood.
I barely have time to disengage my neck from a couple of slender and wiry net ropes that are doing their best to strangle me.
A peasant, mowing near by, hears our cries; he drops his scythe, and kicking off his wooden shoes, tugs at the guide-rope lustily.
The anchor has found a soft spot, suddenly the cable tightens, and our aerial trip is ended.
By this time a few excited villagers have come to the rescue from the neighboring fields.
As we crawl from under the tangled mass of net-work and rigging, a terrorized child falls in a fit at the sight of this unusual performance, rolling in the grass and screaming with fright.
We are both rather pale and a bit weak in the knees; but, oh! the exquisite sensation to feel the good old Earth under our feet again!